


Not So Stubborn

by incogneat_oh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Batdad, Gen, Some profanity, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 06:30:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10588341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incogneat_oh/pseuds/incogneat_oh
Summary: Jason’s sitting on the edge of the bed, combat boots artistically muddied, hair genuinely mussed. He’s half-slouched in his oversized bomber and a pair of high-punishment jeans, raw-knuckled hands folded loose over his knees. He’d looked up at the sound of the door, shoulders straightening automatically. He meets Bruce’s eyes and grins, bleary and bitter, says, “Hey boss.”





	

-

It’s an early night, for Bruce. It’s barely after 2am, and Damian’s long-asleep and snoring like an industrial saw in his bedroom. But Bruce’s eyes are already sandy and red-rimmed, and he’s stifling a yawn with the back of his hand on his way upstairs.

Which is why he pauses, for a few seconds too long, at the peach-pale line of light coming from beneath his bedroom door. He does a brief mental checklist. He knows the alarms are all in place, because he’d checked them maybe one and a half minutes before, on his way up from the Cave. When he’d said goodnight to Alfred. 

And he doesn’t sigh. Just pushes open his bedroom door, and isn’t sure exactly what he was expecting to find on the other side.

Jason’s sitting on the edge of the bed, combat boots artistically muddied, hair genuinely mussed. He’s half-slouched in his oversized bomber and a pair of high-punishment jeans, raw-knuckled hands folded loose over his knees. He’d looked up at the sound of the door, shoulders straightening automatically. He meets Bruce’s eyes and grins, bleary and bitter, says, “Hey boss.”

“Jason,” he returns. And he isn’t surprised.

But he’s also not an idiot, which is why he’s scanning the boy for signs of blood or weapons. There’s nothing he can see, save a two-day old split healing on Jason’s bottom lip, so he moves closer to the bed. 

The window’s open, and the bedside lamp is on, washing the room in a pale, uncomfortable colour. Bruce thinks absently that he’ll change the bulb tomorrow.

Jason stinks like alcohol, even from here. It’s on his breath and his jacket, with the faint but lingering scent of cigarettes.

“You smell like … a brewery.”

Jason barks out a laugh. “You were gonna say ‘something that died’, weren’t you?”

Bruce isn’t amused, but Jason doesn’t seem bothered at all, picking distractedly at a tear in his jeans. He doesn’t seem angry tonight, at least. Not yet. Just world-weary and lonely, nostalgic and self-mocking. The usual, then.

And, “How drunk are you, Jason?” he asks, but it’s not angry or accusatory. 

It’s enough to get Jason to look up, slur proudly, “Not too drunk ta break through your security and climb up here.”

Bruce just hums. Like that’s a reasonable enough measure of inebriation. And then, careful, watching Jason from the corner of his eye, he sits on the enormous bed. There’s a calculated space between them, enough that Jason can make the decisions from here. Because Bruce always seems to get it wrong.

There’s silence, and Jason sways slightly. 

“Is there a reason you’re in here?” Bruce is curious. “In this room, I mean.”

“Din't… want Alfie to see me ’s hammered,” he answers, looking crookedly at Bruce. “ ’s the only place I know he won’ be for sure.”

“I think the cat is out of the bag, Jay,” Bruce tells him. “He knows you drink.”

“ ’s not the same,” he says stubbornly, shaking his head. His hands tighten on his knees. “And I wanted… talk to you. You know. Gotta get good'n stupid 'fore I can do it. Ducts courage an’ all that.”

“ 'Dutch’, Jay,” he says, but the boy doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s smiling at Jason, for what he realises is the first time in a while, says thoughtfully, “Can this talk wait for another minute?”

Jason looks away, mouth pinching down at the corners. But he nods.

So Bruce – sucks in a deep breath, squeezes his shoulder, and stands. 

He goes into the en suite, filling a glass with tap water. Then he returns to the bedroom, manually wrapping Jason’s hand around the glass.

“Izzis what I was waiting for?”

“I'd… like it if you drank it,” Bruce tells him, hand still outstretched to steady the glass, if he needs to. 

“That’s Alfred for 'drink it’,” Jason mutters. But he does gulp down half of it, rolling his eyes exaggeratedly. “We good?”

“Yes,” Bruce agrees gravely, taking the glass back and setting it carefully on the carpet. “We are. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

And Jason lowers his gaze, gives a little laugh. He says, half to himself, “Thought it was a brush-off. 'stead of you doing the Dad thing, t'make sure I’m less hungover tomorrow.”

And Bruce doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he just says, “Whatever you want to talk to me about is okay, Jason.” He adds, “But if you’re going to hit me tonight, I’d like to know now.”

“Chances’re slim,” Jason decides, after a moment. “But no promises.”

“That sounds fair,” Bruce says, smiling in spite of himself.

The silence is almost comfortable.

And Jason closes his eyes, says, “I’m so fuckin’ mad at you.”

Bruce feels his eyebrows hit his hairline, feels something sharp and heavy in his chest. He keeps his voice even when he says, “Oh?”

Jason, eyebrows contracted, flaps a hand impatiently at Bruce. “Stop with the– face. Okay. You ain’ a puppy an’ I never kicked you. Just.” He sucks in a breath, says “I wasn't– I’m  _not done_ , being mad at you, and you  _died_ , and do you. Do you  _know_ how unfair that is?

"You died, and I didn’t know how I was s'posed to feel, because we. I thought we’d never. Never get to the point, where we were okay.” His eyes are sharper now, and he says, “Do you know what'n asshole that makes me? Hating a dead guy?”

And Bruce– can’t speak. Doesn’t know what he would say, if he could.

“I mean,” Jason continues, dogged. “ ’s hard enough, hating you th'rest of the time. Some ways it was easier that you were dead. But most ways not.” He closes his eyes on a sigh, leaning back on the bed. “Wish I didn’t love you so damn much.”

And Bruce’s lips are finding a way to frame the words 'I love you more than anything, and I will continue to do so every second until the end of my days’, and, 'it’s okay to hate me sometimes, because I do too’ when Jason opens his eyes and speaks again. 

“And you’re back an’ I  _still_  don’t know how to feel, because. Stuff’s changed, but not enough, like. Nothing is diff'rent for us. An’ there’s most of me that’s glad you’re back, but I’m startin’ to think this 'closure’ thing is a big fat lie.”

“It mostly is,” Bruce agrees, and Jason snorts, tilting his head to meet Bruce’s gaze.

From here, the lamplight catches on Jason’s broad jaw, the definition of his cheekbones. The hint of scratchy stubble, untidy on someone else but roguishly handsome on Jason. 

He is fully grown, an adult. And it's… strange, for Bruce, who can see the child he was, overlaid with the face of this stranger, this  _man._ But the boy he knew is still there, lingers in the shape of his chin, the curl of his eyelashes, the curve of his not-smile. The bitten-down nails on his bruised-knuckled hands, the line of his shoulders. 

And he says, “I missed you, Boss. I still miss you, even when you’re right here." 

Bruce thinks that’s maybe his cue, so he shifts slightly closer on the bed, very carefully touches a hand to Jason’s shoulder. 

The man– boy–  _Jason_ , doesn’t do anything, just allows the contact. Exhales, soft but audible.

"I miss you too,” Bruce admits softly. Careful as bare footsteps on broken glass, because he and Jason always seem to make each other bleed. And, “It’s okay to be mad. To hate me a lot of the time. But you could still… spend time here. If, and when, you wanted.”

“No,” he says, agitated, shrugging Bruce’s hand off to press a hand to his face. “ _No_ , it's– some days I’m so angry, I just, there’s nothing I can– I want to–” and he stops. “But it’s the other days. Like today, that I. You know.”

Bruce hurts for his son. But he can’t help but smile, a little, very gently. Says, “Jay. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Days when you want to– can stand to– be here… then  _be here_. Other days, you can stay as far away as you want.”

Jason’s hand drops, and he stares at Bruce with undisguised confusion. “Wh–” is all he says.

So Bruce clarifies, “I want you to be here, Jason. But only when  _you_ want to be here.”

He seems to be considering it very seriously, eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn down. And then, something in him seems to deflate, and he sags sideways. Tips until he’s leaning against Bruce, face halfway tucked into his shoulder. Says, “I’m really fuckin’ drunk.”

“I’d got that far,” Bruce says, barely daring to breathe for fear of disrupting the line of contact. When he doesn’t move after one minute– two– Bruce slips an arm around him, gentle and supporting and oh-so-cautious. 

Jason just sighs again, leaning further against him.

And a wave of tiredness washes over Bruce, sudden. Reminding him to repay a little of his sleep-debt. He says (because it’s about time he did), “I love you very much, Jason.”

“Whatever, old man,” is Jason’s immediate response, but Bruce sees the pleased flush spread over his skin. 

So he just bites back his smile and presses a feather-light kiss to Jason’s forehead, right where the white streak starts. 

The silence that follows is… comfortable. A little raw, still, but easy– much easier than before. Still alcohol-fogged, still awash with the ugly lamplight, but easier.

And Jason’s breath is warm against his throat when he mumbles “Don’t even get me fuckin’ started, on that asshole message you left me.”

Ah. “I–”

“I said  _don’t_ , Jesus, B. I already said I wasn’t gonna hit you tonight.”

“I was just going to say sorry,” he murmurs, guiltily. Praying that Jason will stay a little longer, where his face is pressed against the fabric of Bruce’s t-shirt. “I was trying to help you. But I see that I may have gone the wrong way about it.”

“Shut up now.”

“Shutting up now,” Bruce agrees. And Jason curls his hand into Bruce’s shirt, holding on tight. 

“Good,” he says.

And they sit, just like that. Bruce running his hand absently up Jason’s side, Jason’s breath steadily puff-puffing against Bruce’s clavicle. 

Eventually, feeling Jason’s breath slow into a half-doze, Bruce reluctantly breaks the silence. Says, “Alfred’s breakfasts are excellent hangover remedies. Where do you want to sleep, until then? Your old bedroom, or the guest room?” and, “You can stay in here, if you’d prefer–”

Jason rubs his eyes, half-sitting up off Bruce. He squints, appearing to consider the question. “Gues’ room,” he decides.

“You have a toothbrush in there, right?”

“Mhm,” he says. “Alfie made sure.”

“He’s pretty great like that,” Bruce says, fondly. And, “C'mon, Jay, let’s get you to bed. Let me help–”

“You don’ have to,” Jason says, as they get to their feet, Bruce still supporting Jason just in case. “I mean, I jus’ called you a bunch of pretty terrible words.”

Bruce frowns. “No you didn’t, Jay.”

“In my head I did.”

“Oh.”  _Hn._

**END.**

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [tumblr.](http://incogneat-oh.tumblr.com/post/61521296342/not-so-stubborn)


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